Dangerous, and You Know It
by AGriffinWriter
Summary: College is a whole new adventure for Sunnydale's Slayer. New classes, new friends… and a illegally hot history professor who seems to know more about her than he reveals, and whose laundry list of secrets rival Buffy's. Will they give in to their forbidden love? Of course they will; this is a Spuffy fic, duh. Inspired by marilynmay's prof!Spike gif set.
1. Chapter 1

**Dangerous, and You Know It**

By AGriffinWriter

* * *

Chapter One

_"Death is your art. You make it with your hands, day after day…"_

1898, Romania

They closed in around the gypsy camp, four killers that carried centuries of death and chaos with them. Darla took the northern-most corner and waited for the chilling screams that would signal her favorite childe's hunt had begun. Drusilla trailed her grandmummy until the older vampiress ordered her to remain on the west, just outside the light of the campfires. Angelus stalked off arrogantly to the east, his belly already full with the blood of the virgin girl Darla had brought to him, but this taste only seemed to make him more eager for bloodshed.

_The glutton_, Spike thought snidely, taking his post at the south edge of the clearing. These people couldn't fight off _one_ vampire, let alone four well-versed in killing. They're peddlers and musicians, dabbling in magic tricks. It would be a bloodbath, the perverted form of art that Angelus and Darla and Dru would revel in until dawn forced them back into the shadows. _Gimme a good fight any day_…

And then his head split apart, white-hot agony cleaving his skull in two. Spike fell to his knees and roared at the sky, demon and man united in pain. Other screams touched his ears, and he fought for clarity, for anything to focus on besides his tormented head.

_Dru… Drusilla… they're hurtin' her… oh dear God, not… oh… oh God…_

It was all coming back. Every fight, every kill, every bleeding victim he'd cast aside in alleyways and dark corners, every vacant eye of every corpse he'd left in his wake…

Spike's body caved, and he retched into the grass, but he couldn't empty his stomach of enough blood to wipe his soul clean…

* * *

1900, China

"I'm _tryin'_ to _help you!_" Spike bellowed at the sword-swinging Slayer, a girl who couldn't be more than fourteen years old. In buildings all around the one where he fended off the young Slayer's attacks, flames rose to lick the sky. _Darla always loved a nice dose of chaos_.

The blonde vampiress was the only one of the Whirlwind whose new soul hadn't stuck, and while her three heirs were weeping over their remembered sins, she'd torn apart the gypsy camp and ripped the head off the elder when he'd refused to undo the curse. For the last two years, Spike had spent his waking hours taking turns with Angel, either subtly cleaning up the wake of Darla's destruction, or holding his poor Drusilla as she sobbed and repented and clawed her own flesh. Until the night he hadn't returned in time, and his mad sire had evaded Angel while he slept and offered herself to the sun. And it seemed to Spike as though his heart burned up with her.

Continuing on their own, the two males took to the streets after the Irishman's bloodthirsty lover, finally reaching this burning village on the edge of the revolution. They'd split up over an hour ago to search among the refugees, shortly before this girl had leapt out of nowhere and confronted Spike one-on-one.

He knew instantly that this girl was a Slayer. It was written in every pose she struck and every glare she shot his way – that she could sense the demon in him as clearly as he recognized the supernatural power within her.

"Quit fightin' me, girl! I'm not the one you're after!"

The Chinese Slayer couldn't understand his language, only his pissed-off tone, so she kept up her dance, her sword swishing in the air like a fluid extension of her arm. Spike reeled back as the tip of the blade sliced open his eyebrow, and his vampire face surged to the surface at the smell of his own blood.

"Ow! Dammit, girl, I'm here to _HELP!_"

An explosion shook the entire building, and a spurt of fire and debris tore through the window directly behind the girl. She screamed, trying to shield herself from the flames, glass, and rubble, and Spike dove behind a column until the searing heat had abated slightly.

The Chinese Slayer lay on the floor, her body made almost unrecognizable by blood and burns.

"Hey…" Spike crawled toward her on his knees, wary of her sword. "H-hey… Girl?… Slayer?"

She barely had the strength to lift her face to him, and with her last breath her lips mumbled words he could not translate.

"I'm sorry, luv," he whispered in genuine remorse as the light faded from her eyes. "I don't speak Chinese."

* * *

1977, New York City

Rain poured down on the abandoned park, a single street lamp the only light source as the two destined enemies faced each other.

"I've spent a long time trying to track you down," Nikki Wood called to the vampire clad all in tight leather and silver chains. "Don't take kindly to a vigilante in my city."

Spike shrugged. "Since when do Slayers defend the odd rapist or murderer? I've got twice the soul any of those wankers had, luv. Ought to be thankin' me."

"I ain't your love."

She withdrew a stake from the deep pockets of her long leather duster and flung it straight at his heart. Spike trapped the wood between his palms only an inch from his chest.

"Got the moves, don't you?" he grinned, shaking water from his bleached hair. "Been watchin' you, too, pet. You're cunning, resourceful. But fightin' with me's just stupid, Slayer. We're on the same side."

"You're not killing humans on my turf, vampire. Get outta New York."

"Aw, don't want the dance to end so soon, do you, luv? The music's just startin', innit?"

Still smirking, he tossed the stake back across the wet pavement, and it clattered to a halt at her feet.

"I'm serious, Nikki. Don't make an enemy of me. Go home to your Watcher's and keep close to your kid." _If you knew the depth of the evil in this place, the extent of the livin' an' unlivin' nightmares you an' your Watcher can't begin to imagine…_

"Get lost, demon!" shouted Nikki.

Spike backed away, knowing he'd scared the Slayer by mentioning her son. _A'least now she might listen to me_.

"By the way," he said, leaning on the lamp post and throwing her one last smirk, "love the coat."

… Three days later, he stepped solemnly into Bernard Crowley's apartment, unimpeded by any barrier… and cleaned up the three pools of blood that the rampaging Hellions had left behind. He buried what was left of the bodies in Central Park, slipped the dead Slayer's duster over his own shoulders for remembrance, and drove out of New York alone.

* * *

1999, Sunnydale

Buffy Summers woke up hoping that the first day of college would be significantly better than the _day before_ the first day of college. She'd gotten lost on the way to her dorm, dropped books on the head of one of her TAs, and had a painfully awkward meeting with her roommate, who snored like a train all night long. But today… today would be different.

"I think you charmed him," she smirked to Willow, pointing after the tall psychology teaching assistant after they crossed paths with him outside their first class. "Should I warn Oz to watch out?"

Willow blushed and elbowed her best friend. "Don't be a meanie. Besides, I think Riley was looking at _you_."

"Me?" Buffy snorted. "Let's see… Brainless Buffy who drops books on his head, or Witty Willow who knows all there is to know about treatises and operant conditioner…"

"_Conditioning_," Willow corrected her, sniggering as Oz joined them and hugged the redhead.

"See my point?" said Buffy. She unzipped her backpack and fumbled for her class schedule amid textbooks and spiral notebooks. "But Psych isn't until later. World History's first…"

"Hey, Buffy, hold up a second. Look this way."

Confused, Buffy turned to fully face Willow, who looked at both sides of her face and pointed at one of the Slayer's ear lobes.

"Buff, you've lost an earring."

"Really?" Buffy touched her own ear, only to confirm Willow's discovery. "Darn. Did you see it fall?"

"No… Look, our class is right here. You've got five minutes. We'll save you a seat, and you can check the hallway. If you don't find it, we'll help you after."

Buffy sighed. "It's probably a lost cause. An earring in a haystack, or… something. But I'll look."

As Willow and Oz entered the classroom, Buffy spun around and weaved her way between rushed students, glancing at the hallway baseboards in search of the elusive silver stud.

"Come on… where are you… stupid little piercing…"

Three minutes later and she hadn't found so much as an oversized dust mite. Grumpily, Buffy gave up the search and turned back, taking a left when she reached a T in the hallway.

_Or… did I come from the left… so I should go right? I didn't go through double-doors, did I?_

Cursing under her breath, Buffy wheeled around and yanked her schedule out of her bag again. Her finger skimmed the page until she found the correct classroom number for her due-to-start-any-moment history course. She set off at a more brisk pace, glancing at the plaques beside the doors until she was at the right one. She peered through the little window to see that nearly every seat was taken, and the attention of every student was riveted to the front of the room.

Swallowing nervously, Buffy turned the door handle, thanking her lucky stars when nothing squeaked or creaked.

"Do you know where the greatest supercomputer in the world resides?" the professor was saying in a lightly accented voice, his back to the classroom as he scribbled three words on the chalkboard – _Professor William Milton_. "It's right in your head. It's the human brain. Yet we only use ten percent of it…"

She was going to make it. Just two more seats to shimmy past, and she would be next to Willow, and Professor William Milton would be none the wiser that she'd missed the first minute or two of lecture…

"Good morning, _Miss Summers_. Did we start too early for you?"

Buffy jumped and froze in place, literally an inch from the empty seat, and guiltily raised her eyes to the man standing in front of the chalkboard. He was facing her now, leaning casually against his desk, the nub of chalk held between his index and middle fingers like a cigarette.

_Holy hell_…

The professor was an absolute god. He was unbelievably young for a teacher – late-twenties at the most – with impeccable clean-shaven skin, soft-looking lips, and angular cheekbones. His dark gelled hair had the faintest curl to it, especially at the nape of his neck. He wore indigo jeans and a white button-up under his sports jacket, with enough buttons undone to expose all of his throat and just a tease of his chest. A small Y-shaped white scar touched the edge of his left eyebrow, above a pair of icy blue eyes that held her in place like a butterfly pinned to a corkboard.

_Oh god, he was hot…_

_Wait… what had he asked her?_

* * *

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you all for your reviews and feedback! To anyone who wasn't sure, Buffy is still the Slayer in this AU. Seasons 1-3 happened as canon, except without Spike/Dru showing up.  
Some dialogue taken from Smallville: Aqua and BtVS: The Freshman. Again, thanks to ezriela and marilynmay for prompting this story idea!

* * *

Chapter Two

_"How do you get to be renowned? I mean, like, do you have to be 'nowned' first?"_

"Miss Summers?"

"Sorry," Buffy mumbled, blushing. "I kinda got lost."

"Mmhm."

_Oh god, he's biting his lip…_

"If there are any other wayward travelers, this is Introduction to World History," said the professor in his highbrow British accent. He finally turned his scorching gaze away from Buffy, who slithered into her seat like a limp noodle. "I am Professor William Milton. But before we delve into my lectures about the Greeks and Romans – which I'm sure you'll find very enlightening – let's look at the word _history_."

He turned back around to scrawl 'HISTORY' on the chalkboard below his name, but Buffy was preoccupied with the view of his back, especially the way his dark wash jeans hugged his ass just slightly.

_Oh my god, I'm going to fail this class and love every minute of it…_

"History…" Professor Milton faced his students again and tapped the chalk nub on the board, "is not about _facts_. It's about the _context_, and _who_ is telling the story. So…"

His eyes swept the class, complete silence meeting his poignant pause.

"What.. is.. history? What is _his_ story?" He nodded at a boy sitting two rows in front of Oz, and then almost immediately ensnared Buffy with his gaze again. "What is _your_ story, Miss Summers? How will you affect the world around you for generations to come?"

_Ohmygod-Ohmygod-Ohmygod…_

"You have no idea," she stuttered the first sentence that came to her mind that didn't include vampires, demons, and the forces of darkness, though an instant later she realized how arrogant she came across and promptly turned pink again. "I m-mean… I don't know if you can know that at eighteen."

He gave her a soft but guarded smile, as though enjoying an inside joke that only gorgeous underage history professors would understand.

"An honest opinion… I like that. But imagine how different the world might be if someone had said that to Alexander the Great, or Joan of Arc… well, I'm getting ahead of myself. I trust that all of you have purchased the required text for this course?"

Around eighty backpacks rustled as students scrambled for their books.

Luckily for Buffy, Professor Milton spent most of the first class running over the syllabus, explaining his grading criteria for the course, and discussing the first assignment. She couldn't take her eyes off him, and by the sounds of numerous sighs around her, neither could most of the other girls in the class. He held their attention like an actor delivering a rousing soliloquy from center-state, commanding the whole room without raising his voice. And the way he walked… like a prowling panther, owning the space around him, each step timed and precise, every tilt of his head and shrug of his shoulders etching itself in her memory.

"If there are no questions, class dismissed," said Professor Milton at ten minutes to eleven, and an audible sigh of disappointment rumbled over the class. He turned back around to erase the chalkboard as the students put their books away and started to leave.

"Buffy, come on," Willow prompted, noticing that her best friend hadn't left her seat yet. "We've got Psych in ten minutes."

"I'll catch up. It's just down the hall, right?"

Willow gave her a skeptical, _you're-going-to-be-late-again_ look, but shrugged and joined Oz in the doorway, leaving Buffy in the almost empty classroom. As Professor Milton finished wiping the blackboard, marking missed students in his roll book, and packing up his laptop bag, Buffy waited, gnawing her lip.

"Can I help you, Miss Summers?" he asked when she made no progress toward the door.

"Oh, uh… I was just… I'm sorry I was late. Me, wrong foot, you know."

"Never apologize," he replied, the tiniest smirk on his lips. "If you're going to show up late, at least do it with conviction, Miss Summers. Besides, I always have to make an example of someone."

His tongue curled behind his teeth, and her knees almost buckled.

"H-how do you know my name?"

_Oh god, that man and his grin should not be legal…_

"Tell me, what was the first thing you did for orientation yesterday?"

Buffy blanched and racked her brain. _Yesterday was kinda a blur of freshman failure_.

"Uh… I got my picture taken for my school ID," she admitted lamely, certain that this wasn't what he must mean.

"Exactly," he nodded, continuing to melt her with his smile and sexy British voice, "and that photo is in a database which I check before the semester begins. That way, I can call my students by their proper names. Helps the learning process."

Buffy turned a little pink, impressed that he'd correctly identified her face out of eighty college kids on the first try. He sat on the edge of his desk and interlocked his fingers over one knee, his crystal blue eyes never leaving her face.

"Did you get a copy of the syllabus, Miss Summers?"

"Yes. A-and it's Buffy," she mumbled. _Although, on second thought, hearing him say my name is probably gonna send me one step further toward Crushville_.

"Alright… Buffy."

_Ohhh… yup. U.S.S. Buffy on course for Crushville._

"Is there anything else you need from me?" he asked slowly. As she stared at him, trying to form an answer that didn't sound absolutely besotted, his head tilted just slightly, his eyes calculating and guarded.

"No," Buffy shook her head. "No, I… I just, uh, enjoyed the lecture."

He chuckled lightly. "Then I look forward to your appraisal of my teaching skills once we actually get into the course material, Buffy. Shall we?"

He stood with his laptop bag in his right hand and held the door open for her. His smile was tight-lipped, and she fearfully wondered if she was making him late for something, like a department meeting.

"Bye," she mumbled, considerably more flustered now than she'd ever been when facing rabid vampires or gigantic monsters. The last thing she observed as she slipped past him was his left hand on the doorknob. On one of his fingers was a thin gold band with a green gem inside more gold filigree, and Buffy realized with an illogically heavy sinking in her heart that a man who was so young… and intelligent… and attractive… was probably already married.

_As if he wasn't already unattainable…_

* * *

Spike shut the classroom door, waited until the curious blonde freshman – until Buffy Summers – had skittered away towards her next class, and then strolled at an aggressive pace in the opposite direction.

_The SLAYER! Whole world of teachin' positions open… an' I land the one where the soddin' Slayer has to be enrolled in my bloody class!_

Every muscle in his body was tense, and he stopped at a break in the hallway where an open archway overlooked the campus quad. He rested his elbows on the bricks, his fingers and lungs itching for a cig… but he'd stubbornly left what remained of his last pack in his duster, which was currently hanging on the back of his bedroom door in his flat. Unable to curb his craving, he just raked one hand through his dark hair, digging his fingers into his scalp.

He'd refused to believe it when he'd flipped through the class roll yesterday – his near-photographic memory letting him quickly associate names with faces – and seen the name _Buffy Summers_ and the picture of the smiling blonde, the love and soul-mate of his sulking grandsire. He'd told himself it had to be a mistake, a joke, or a mirage brought about by his frequent insomnia. Even for a vampire, the amount he slept was meager, often interrupted by nightmares of the worst atrocities he'd committed in the eighteen years between his death and his curse.

When he'd arrived in his classroom an hour ago and watched the students milling in, relief had filled his chest when the little box beside Buffy Summers's name in his roll sheet had remained free of a check-mark. And yet, mere minutes after he had started lecturing – spouting off a statistic he knew wasn't true but was just intended to spark hard work in the undergraduate blighters – he'd heard the door and breathed in that trace of a scent he knew instantly from China and New York, that essence that each Slayer made their own. Buffy's was fresh and light, like a meadow of blooming wildflowers after a spring rain…

Spike bit his lip at the memory, disgusted by his poncey, poetic thoughts.

Regardless, she was there, and in his irritation he'd made a fool of her, almost dared her to march down to the front of the classroom and attempt to stake him right then and there. He was sure she'd sussed out something odd about him, from the way her bright jade eyes had never deviated from him for the entire fifty minute period, long enough to made him sweat. When she'd hung back, his suspicions had multiplied, but she hadn't seemed aggressive, just awkward… and surprisingly interested in world history.

He glanced down at his watch briefly and then at his emerald ring, the Gem of Amara, his only souvenir from a near-decade spent defending the Hellmouth in Cleveland, Ohio. Since he'd never encountered a Slayer since he'd possessed the ring, he now wondered if among its many properties there might be some power that masked his vampire nature from such as the Slayer. But that still didn't explain the fascinated look that Buffy had leveled at him from the moment their eyes had met…

Spike felt a demanding buzz in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, his brows narrowing. He didn't recognize the caller ID, and he didn't give his personal number out to just anybody. Suspiciously, he flipped the phone open.

"Milton," he muttered gruffly.

"William, you bore!" a girlish giggle answered him. "Is that what you're calling yourself now? Your standards certainly are deteriorating. Even 'Spike' is better than 'Milton'."

Eyes closing, Spike stepped around the corner of the archway and leaned one shoulder against the brick façade.

" 'Lo, Cecily," he murmured into the phone, dropping into the cockney accent he'd adopted for most of his unlife. "How are you, pet?"

"Fine, fine. You know I go by 'Hallie' these days. Much less starchy. _Surely_ you haven't really changed your name to Mi–"

"No, I'm still William. Professor William Milton. Got myself a gig teachin' history and poetry in California, little nowhere town. A'course, just my luck it happens to be a soddin' Hellmouth."

"Ah, I wondered. Heard you were there but didn't know why. But listen, I'm coming down to that dreary little place in Sunnydale to see another long-time friend, and… well…"

She paused, and Spike knew she was about to play coy with him. Holding grievances was pointless for immortals – something he'd sussed out in regards to Angelus, that keeping up a rancor against the vampire who'd made him a monster only ate away at his own insides instead of Angel's – but Cecily was different. They'd crossed paths in Italy in the fifties, and she'd made the startling confession that she was not the Cecily Addams that his spineless human self had been so besotted with, but in fact she was Halfrek, a Vengeance Demon of the D'Hoffryn Order, Patron of Wronged Children. So when she'd suggested they shack up, the bit of him that was still William Pratt had leapt at the chance… and been sorely disappointed. Hallie or Halfrek or whatever she called herself… she was nothing like the woman he'd built her up to be in his mind. She was flighty and caustic, she killed mortals without a second-thought, and she gave him only the leftovers of her time and her love.

But beyond all of that, even if he dwelt on only the happy parts of their time living together… he could never forget Drusilla, never let his heart heal from the death of his sire. Their love had fit eternity into eighteen blissful years, and left a permanent aching void in his chest that no other could ever fill. So he'd called it off with Halfrek, keeping only a cordial acquaintanceship, occasionally sharing drinks if they happened to cross paths once they'd both relocated to the American continent.

"I… I don't suppose there's any chance you could spare clean towels and half a bed, for old times sake?" said Hallie at last.

_Bloody knew it_.

"Since when have you ever been content with 'alf the bed, luv?" he replied, rolling his eyes at the clear blue sky.

"I didn't hear you complaining the last time we shared."

He sighed and rubbed his forehead, further disheveling his hair. _You HEARD, you just didn't listen._

"Cecily…"

"It's 'Hallie', _Milton_," Halfrek countered, no doubt pursing her lips at him from wherever she was calling. "If you're going to be a whiney little boy about it, I'll find somewhere else to stay."

"I'm not the one gettin' shirty, here, princess," he muttered. "And I haven't said 'no' yet, only that we're not sharin' a bed again. Got a spare room in my flat you can kip in."

In truth, he didn't… but considering the little sleep he managed to get these days, he wouldn't begrudge lending her his bedroom for a few nights.

"You're a saint," Hallie cooed.

"Just promise not to kill anyone in Sunnydale and we'll call it even. When can I expect you?"

"Next Saturday, half past six in the afternoon. Can you pick your girl up at the airport, dear Will?"

_You're not my girl, and I'm not your dear Will. My girl's been dead for a century._

"Sure, Hallie."

"You won't forget and leave me stranded, will you?"

"No. I'll remember."

"Can't thank you enough. Ciao, lover!"

She hung up before he could growl out that they'd never for one moment been lovers, no matter how many times she'd taken him to bed. His stomach felt like it was full of toxic bile, and he considered just leaving the campus for the day, since he sincerely doubted any of the students would come knocking on his door for office hours this early in the semester. He didn't dare keep blood in the mini-fridge in the history department's lounge, so the closest meal was at his flat.

_Day One of professor-ing, and I'm already rarin' to call it quits. God help me…_

Unlikely to receive any aid from that source, Spike was about to return his phone to his pocket when he paused, and after another few moments of tight-lipped deliberation he reached for his wallet, dug out a small white card that he'd received in the mail a day previously, and dialed the number. As it rang, he spun the little business card in his hand, trying to determine what the minimally sketched butterfly-lobster design was really supposed to be.

"Angel Investigations. We help the hopeless."

"Er… is Angel there?" Spike asked, thrown off guard for the second time in as many phone calls by the chipper female voice on the other end of the line.

"He's out at the moment. I'm Cordelia. I can take a message for him."

"Uh… right." Spike sighed and leaned his head back against the brick façade. "Could you tell him… tell him it's Drusilla's widower. I'm teaching a new student, and she's like the special girl from China. You got that, pet?"

The young woman's humming was his only answer for a few second, and then she replied, "Okay-dokey. Drusilla's widower. New student. Special girl from China. Can I take a number for him to call you back?"

"He knows how to reach me. Ta, luv."

Closing the flip-phone, Spike turned around, enjoyed one more moment of sunshine, and grudgingly re-entered the academic building.

* * *

_To be continued…_


End file.
